Melita
yes, yes, I am wild
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
I am the wind that makes breathing hard
She didn’t hide the sense of smug satisfaction at his words, a very light snicker crossing her features, but made sure it was pinpointed at the sky, at the stonework of steps, rather than directly at him. Thereafter though, when it seemed he was going to be needing some time to alter back into whatever, the youth brushed her hands together, glancing around until she found some old piece of wood to sit upon. “All right,” was some semblance of a haphazard acceptance, knowing full well she’d done the deed and now had to wait for the aftereffects to subside. Rather than digging her hands into the earth and making arrangements of mischief, she tilted her head, watching precariously – as a cat might survey prey.
She wasn't nurturing like her mother or sister had been. They would've offered him herbs and ministrations of how to counter-act the pain and assaults. Melita bided the moments instead. A careful altering of the subject made a beeline for her words, instead of an assortment of others she nearly pressed. “How’s Kamaria doing?”
She wasn't nurturing like her mother or sister had been. They would've offered him herbs and ministrations of how to counter-act the pain and assaults. Melita bided the moments instead. A careful altering of the subject made a beeline for her words, instead of an assortment of others she nearly pressed. “How’s Kamaria doing?”
I am the ocean and the battered shore
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
I will be the passion of thunder, a howl of fury
